Towards a Dark Horizon Read online

  George was a lovely man. He was so easy-going that his nickname was ‘the Gentle Giant’. Still, that didn’t stop him getting into a fight with any bully who tried to push weaker people aside. Many a time he had stepped into the middle of some brawl if he thought someone was getting a rough deal and many a punch he’d got for his troubles. He now stood in the doorway with a glass of stout in his huge fist. He seemed confused by all the women until his eye landed on Dad and Danny.

  He marched over. ‘We’re in the bedroom with the coffin,’ he said in a whisper that echoed around the room.

  Hattie went white but sensibly remained silent.

  He whispered again. ‘Come on through and say a last cheerio to your grandad, Danny.’

  Danny seemed uncertain but he didn’t look at his mother. Then, making up his mind, he said, ‘I can’t stay long, George.’

  His uncle beamed. ‘That’s fine, lad – just a quick cheerio.’

  Danny had taken one step towards the room when into the kitchen strode Martin Murphy, a neighbour. Small and beefy and very belligerent, his glass was empty which seemed to annoy him greatly and, when he spoke, he sounded like a disgruntled Jack Russell terrier – snappy and loud. ‘Och, it’s yourself, Danny. Now, you’ll be joining us for yer grandaddy’s wake. We sit up all night and pay our respects to the dead so to speak.’

  I looked at Hattie. She had half risen from the chair and, for a brief moment, I thought she was going to haul Danny from the room and the clutches of Martin Murphy. Her attitude didn’t surprise me but, to my astonishment, I noticed the effect Martin’s words had on Kit and Ma. Kit stepped forward and almost collided with Kathleen and the teapot. Meanwhile Ma’s face dropped its blank look and she looked concerned.

  ‘Kit, don’t let Danny stay for the wake,’ she turned to Hattie. ‘Take him home, lass, as it’s not a thing for a young laddie.’

  She glared at Martin but her words fell on deaf ears. He puffed out his beefy chest and glared back at her. ‘Don’t be daft, Ma. What harm can it do? Surely if seventeen-year-auld Sammy Malloy is there then so should Danny pay his respects.’ He turned to Dad. ‘You come in as well, Johnny.’

  Now it was my turn to be worried. Both Dad and Danny had their jobs to go to in the morning and the last thing I wanted was for them both to be up all night drinking.

  Life had been hard enough for us after Mum’s death. Dad had taken this so badly that he drowned his sorrow in drink. He had taken his unhappiness to the pub. Fortunately, Maddie’s parents had found him a job in her uncle’s warehouse and he had stopped drinking – apart from an occasional pint of beer on a Saturday night.

  By now, George realised the big mistake he had made and he tried to usher Martin back into the bedroom. Martin let out a roar of annoyance that brought other neighbours, the Malloys, senior and junior, into the kitchen. They had obviously drunk too much beer and they were both on the verge of aggression. Mick Malloy, the father, thrust his unshaven face within an inch of Kit’s furious expression. ‘Will you stop your whinging, woman, and let the laddie mourn his Grandaddy?’

  Then, before Kit or Hattie could stop them, they swept the two men into the bedroom. A sheepish-looking and worried George followed them while young Sammy gave Kathleen a long leering gaze.

  Before the door closed, I had a sneak view of the bedroom’s dark interior. The black shape of the coffin, highlighted by glowing candles, was surrounded by the shadowy shapes of the mourners. Cigarette smoke wafted out of this hell-like scene, along with the pungent smell of beer, and then the door was firmly closed in the faces of the outraged women.

  ‘That Mick Malloy and his son are just toerags and idiots,’ said Kit to a furious-looking Hattie who was trying desperately to keep her social smile in place.

  If I hadn’t been worried myself, I would have laughed at her comical expression but it was no laughing matter. ‘Dad has his work tomorrow and so has Danny.’ My voice was tight with worry. ‘If they don’t turn up, they’ll lose them, Kit.’

  Ma Ryan called out from her chair, ‘Don’t you worry, lass. They’ll not be staying for long – even if I have to haul them out myself.’

  On that note of promise, we swallowed our tea and finished off a meat paste sandwich. Then we said our goodbyes.

  Before we left, Ma asked Hattie, ‘Will we see you at the funeral on Thursday? The service will be held here at ten o’clock and the interment at Balgay cemetery afterwards.’

  I saw that Hattie was having great difficulty in keeping her voice under control. The last thing she would want was to lose her dignity in this shabby little room. Even so, her answer surprised me. I was waiting for a polite refusal but she said very quietly, ‘Yes, Ma, I’ll be there.’

  A flicker of emotion leapt into Ma’s eyes. ‘Thanks for coming, Hattie. It’s been great to see you again.’

  Hattie thanked Kit and her sisters for the tea and then we headed towards the dark stair again. Our passage was helped slightly by the light of the torch, which Hattie promised she’d get Danny to return. That is if he was ever allowed back after tonight, I thought.

  I was tensed up and waiting for the explosion. I wasn’t disappointed. Halfway down the street, Hattie stopped suddenly and stamped her feet in anger. ‘Imagine letting a young lad go to a wake. A wake, I ask you! Sitting up all night with a dead body.’ Her voice held a hysterical note of fury. ‘I’ve never heard anything so barbaric in my entire life.’ She snorted with derision. ‘Of course, it’s just an excuse for a good-old booze-up. The women in that family haven’t a decent dress between them but their men can still find money for beer.’

  Thankfully, the tramcar arrived at that moment and put a temporary stop to her tirade. Even so, she was like a coiled spring all the way home and it was a wonder her gloves weren’t torn to shreds by the way she twisted them. It was like sitting next to a smouldering volcano and an erratic one at that. I had no idea when it would erupt.

  The eruption came in the kitchen at the Overgate. Granny almost fell backwards under the onslaught. Hattie’s voice had even risen a decibel or two and Granny had to tell her to be quiet. ‘For heaven’s sake, keep your voice down. I don’t want Dad or Lily to wake up.’ She nodded over to the bed in the corner of the room where Grandad lay snoring. On the Richter scale it would have registered a three.

  There was no sign of my sister but I knew she would be in the tiny room that was just off the lobby – the room that resembled a cupboard and had been mine in my younger days.

  Hattie was in full flow although she did lower her voice, a lowering that emphasised her words and they emerged from her mouth like machine gun bullets – sharp, fierce and hurtful.

  She repeated her earlier tirade then started on the Ryan family. ‘What a bunch of bloody morons they are – letting Danny go to a morbid thing like that and him having to get up for his work tomorrow.’ She then whirled on me. ‘And what about your father? If he misses a day then he’ll get his books and his marching orders.’

  I opened my mouth but Hattie hadn’t finished.

  ‘Bosses nowadays don’t have time for outdated and moronic customs like wakes.’

  I opened my mouth again but this time Granny butted in. ‘Well, Danny isn’t a laddie any more, Hattie. He’s almost a grown man and as for Ann’s dad …’

  Her silence unnerved me. ‘Please don’t let Dad go back to his drinking,’ I said in a mental prayer.

  ‘Well, as for Johnny,’ said Granny, ‘he’s also a grown man and able to take responsibility for his actions.’

  I got the impression this wasn’t what she meant to say but her better judgement had prevailed. We all knew that, since Mum’s death in 1931 after giving birth to Lily, he had walked a tightrope kind of existence – drinking heavily and getting into the wrong sort of relationships. It was still common knowledge that Marlene Davidson, one of his ex-girlfriends was still telling everyone who would listen, ‘Yon Johnny Neill is a rotten beggar.’ She was still bemoaning the fact that he hadn’t married
her – in spite of her looking after him so well when he lodged with her.

  Then there was Rosie from next door. She worshipped him but even she couldn’t get him to pop the question. She visited the house every spare minute she had and she had even given up her work with the Salvation Army, which had been a big thing in her life, but to no avail.

  Hattie’s voice brought me back from my reverie. ‘All I’m saying is this – it’s a disgrace and the funeral will be an even bigger booze-up.’

  ‘Still, you said you would go,’ I said.

  Hattie glared at me. ‘What else could I say with them all looking at me like I was some kind of freak?’

  Granny was annoyed. ‘I wish you would stop all this moaning about wakes and funerals. After all, this sitting up all night with a dead body is just a custom and it’s probably a tradition with the Ryans.’

  Hattie wasn’t giving up her anger without a fight. She snapped, ‘Well, thank goodness Danny has been kept away from all these so-called traditions and customs. Another thing – I know Pat wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with this because he was too good and much too sensible.’

  ‘That’s the truth,’ said Granny, ‘but don’t forget that the only perfect husbands in the world are the ones who are dead.’ She glanced fondly at Grandad whose Richter scale had now dropped to zero.

  I felt I had to say something. ‘I don’t think you can blame Ma Ryan or Kit and her sisters for this. I noticed Ma jumped out of her chair and told Kit not to let Danny go. No, in my opinion, it is those awful Malloys’ and Martin Murphy’s fault.’

  Sammy Malloy’s face swam into my mind. I hadn’t liked the leering look he gave Kathleen and I hoped the little sod didn’t have any ambitions in her direction.

  Hattie rubbed her eyes. She looked so weary that I almost felt sorry for her until I remembered that Danny was grown up and in full control of his own life. He was engaged to be married to Maddie and they had already planned the wedding. It would take place after Maddie’s final exams at the end of her nursing training. No, Hattie had to realise she couldn’t rule his life forever.

  Granny made tea – strong and sweet for me and her, weak and sugarless for Hattie. Living like a lady in the Pringle house had given her a taste for tea with lemon but lemons were the last thing Granny would keep in her cupboard.

  Hattie conceded I was right. ‘Yes, I did notice that Ma Ryan and Kit did their best but it was useless against those awful men. Those Malloys and that Murphy man can smell drink from a mile off.’

  She turned to me, now all sweetness and light. ‘Will you come to the funeral with me, Ann? I feel I need another woman from my own family to back me up. After all, I haven’t seen the Ryan family for a while.’

  Granny told me later that she almost told Hattie that she hadn’t visited the Ryans since Pat’s funeral in 1917 but she decided to remain quiet.

  I had to give this request some thought. I started work at seven in the morning in time for the early morning trade and I finished at one o’clock. Sometimes, if needed, I did an evening shift from four till six o’clock but I got every Sunday off.

  ‘I’ll speak to Miss Boyd in the morning, Hattie. Maybe if I offer to work some extra hours she’ll let me off.’

  On that uncertain note, she stood up and smoothed her leather gloves over her white hands. Hands that were still pretty in spite of her age and not red and raw like Granny’s or the Ryan women’s – or, for that matter, like my own. She was growing old gracefully it would seem.

  She was almost out the door when Granny called after her. ‘You’ll be thinking I’m terrible but I forgot to ask what Dad Ryan died with?’

  She looked annoyed but then she quickly put on a sorry face. ‘Oh, it was his heart I think. Ma did say that he was quite ill with bronchitis a few weeks ago but she thought he was feeling better. According to Danny, he’s always been bothered with his chest and his lungs. Coughing and spluttering but would he give up his cigarettes? Not him. Puffing away on his “Wild Woodbines” every day. He even called them “Coffin Nails” and that’s what they’ve become – nails in his coffin.’

  The room became quiet after she departed and we sipped our tea in hushed harmony.

  I was forever grateful to my grandparents for looking after Lily while I worked. Our routine hardly ever varied. After work, I would pick Lily up from the Overgate and we would have our tea when Dad got in from his work. Then, in the evening, I would return to the Overgate with her. One problem loomed on the horizon. She would be starting the school after the summer holidays and I wasn’t sure how we would manage then.

  As if reading my thoughts, Granny said, ‘Maybe Miss Boyd can give you different hours when Lily goes to the school. Something will turn up, Ann. It aye does.’

  I smiled at her. Dear Granny – forever the eternal optimist.

  ‘Do you want to stay here tonight?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. I’ve got Dad’s pieces to make yet, for his work in the morning.’

  In spite of the rain, the Overgate was still busy with people. From a distant church steeple a clock chimed nine o’clock and a cold penetrating wind swirled around my legs. Like some mini typhoon, it whirled into doorways and the narrow closes, catching discarded litter and sweeping it into miniature mountains of debris. People hurried by, their bodies shivering in thin coats and jackets and their heads bent against the weather. It was clear they weren’t out for a nocturnal stroll as they hurried towards tiny shops that were still open or, in the case of the men, emerged from one of the many bars that lined the street.

  On reaching home I climbed the stairs realising for the first time how weary I was. Because of the urgent summons to Lochee, I hadn’t lit the fire and the flat was cold. There was no sense in lighting it now so I put a match to the gas jets of the oven and left the door ajar. The room soon became cosy and I was grateful for its warmth as I still had some chores to finish as well as having to make Dad’s sandwiches for his dinner break at work.

  I also wanted to write to Greg. I had known him for over a year now after Maddie arranged for me to visit him while he was a patient in her ward. I remembered how against the idea I had been at the time but it had turned into a wonderful friendship. I smiled at the memory. Although his parents lived near Trinafour in Perthshire, where his father was a shepherd, Greg was a librarian in the public library in Dundee.

  For the umpteenth time over the last few weeks, I wished that I could speak to him but he had been sent to Glasgow on a temporary transfer. A few weeks ago, he had given up his lodgings in Victoria Road on the advice of his boss at work and the future didn’t look very rosy from my point of view.

  I got out my notepad and began to write down all my news, including the death at Lochee. I wrote, ‘He died at the same time as the King.’ After I wrote it I wasn’t sure why I thought this dubious claim to fame was somehow important.

  I tried hard not to think about all the good-looking girls Greg would constantly be coming across – wonderfully smart and vivacious girls with nothing on their minds except clothes and having fun. Still, this wouldn’t do, I thought – this feeling of self-pity – so I ended my letter cheerfully.

  In spite of thinking about Greg, my mind kept returning to Lochee. I had the strangest feeling that something was wrong but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Even as I addressed my letter to his new lodgings in Renfrew Street, I still couldn’t shake off this niggly feeling and it lasted until I went to bed.

  I thought back to Ma Ryan’s and Kit’s reaction when Mick Malloy pulled Danny into the back room. Had they looked frightened? I thought they had but surely I was wrong. After all, it was just a custom amongst the Irish community – this sitting up all night with the deceased. A shiver of fear made me tremble and I hugged my hot-water bottle. ‘Don’t let Dad drink too much,’ I prayed out loud as I snuggled down beneath the blankets.

  I don’t know what time Dad came home as he had the alarm clock in his room but I do know it was in the still, quiet hours o
f the morning. I heard him moving around quietly before he headed to his bedroom.

  Thank goodness he’s home, I thought. Then I fell asleep into a deep place, still feeling afraid of some unknown thing.

  Something was definitely wrong. I saw it in Dad’s eyes as he ate his breakfast. Gulping down strong sweet tea before dashing off to the warehouse. He had that evasive look I well remembered from the old days when he was hiding something from me.

  My sleep had been full of horrible dreams and I didn’t feel rested. Because of this sluggishness I was now struggling to get to my work. Dad sat hunched at the table while I washed my face using water from the cold-water tap at the sink.

  I still had the strong feeling of impending doom. ‘Dad, how did the wake go last night?’ I caught the startled expression on his face as I lowered the towel from my eyes but he replaced this look with a charming smile – a smile which didn’t quite reach his troubled eyes, I noticed.

  ‘Och, it was fine but we didn’t stay long. We both left about four o’clock.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Heavens, is that the time? I’d better dash or I’ll be late for work.’ On that note he rushed out of the room and I heard his tacketty boots clattering down the stone stairs.

  Of course, by now, I was well and truly worried but I didn’t have time to think about it. Miss Boyd would now be surrounded by piles of newspapers and in dire need of my help. I turned out the gas lamp and headed out the door, determined to tackle Dad in the evening. Something had happened last night and I wanted to know what it was.

  Connie Boyd’s shop was situated a few yards from our close which was ideal for me. It was a tiny shop made even smaller by the large amount of stock she kept. She had a small lending library in the back of the shop. A cupboard-sized space with wooden shelves that were filled with books she had collected over the years – mostly crime novels, romantic stories and Wild West cowboy sagas. She also carried a small selection of classics like Treasure Island and Jane Eyre. The books were in reasonable condition but some of the covers had seen better days. They weren’t in the same league as my legacy of books from the late Mrs Barrie which were being kept by the Pringle family until I had space to keep them myself.